It looks like I’ve gotten some of my flow back.

It came with dark conversation, long and slow. Like it always does. It came with long hours under the glaring sun, burning, biking. It came thirty miles ago – watching a field go by and the land slowly slope away into the river, the ocean, the sun.

Birds winged overheard, open and free, and a singular cloud pulled past us on a breeze that blew cool on our backs.

The slow flow of one seeking something entirely different.
The gradual flow of a nomadic wind.
The eventual flow of a floating soul.

Soon, this will be less experimental, more a way of life.


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